Hello! I'm glad that you decided to read Rewind, but I'm afraid that you'll find that this is actually the fanfiction of a fanfiction. I am a great fan of Hannah300, whose fics you should definitely read if you are a fan of Gerita.
In Rewind, I will post oneshots of her fanfictions, whether from another character's point of view, or their innermost thoughts about the situation. The first oneshot that you will find here, is from Don't Bet on Love, and is from Germany's point of view.
I hope that you will enjoy my ventures into the character's heads.
Disclaimer – Hetalia: Axis Powers does not belong to me; it belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya. Similarly, Don't Be on Love belongs to Hannah300.
Title: Silent Thoughts
Fandom: Don't Bet on Love
Characters: Germany, Italy, Spain.
Scene: Germany's attempted apology.
Warnings: Slight angst, OOCness, mentions of sex.
"Relax, you idiot. If you explain it to him, he'll understand. He won't hate you for it, and everything will be fine," Germany said to himself. He couldn't help but absolutely and completely hope that Italy did not hate him. As cliche as it sounded, he would not know what to do if the Italian hated him.
He buried himself deeper into his bed, hugging a pillow to his chest and imagining that it was Italy snuggling up to him. Uneasy and anxious, Germany fell asleep.
Germany put his hand in his pocket and fiddled with a piece of paper, on which he had written what he was going to say to Italy. He had to forgive him. He had to. Swallowing, he walked up the steps to Italy's apartment and rang the bell. No response; he tried again. Biting his lip, he tried for the third and final time. Still, he received no response.
Was the Italian avoiding him? Germany thought. Today was a Wednesday, after all, and Italy did not teach any classes on Wednesday. He would know; he had memorized Italy's schedule so that he could surprise the Italian with dates and gifts here and there.
He sighed, and turned to leave – he would just have to try again later – but his heart soared when he saw Italy in the cafe across the street. Jogging across the road, he came to a complete stop when he saw another man sitting opposite of Italy, their hands linked together.
Italy doesn't want me anymore? Was the first thought that entered the German's mind. Has Italy already replaced me, already found someone that he wants more than me? Germany continued to stare, guilt and regret flooding through him – for making that stupid, stupid bet – along with a dull ache in his chest. Won't he even give me a chance to apologize to him?
He reeled backwards slightly, heart clenching painfully, shaking his head as though that would change what he was seeing, what he was feeling. Italy did not want him. Italy already had someone else that he preferred over Germany.
He turned, anger seething within him, and stormed home.
After he'd shouted at Prussia, Germany lay silent in bed – again. It hurt so much to know that Italy had chosen someone else over him, and a guy, not less. It Italy had chosen a girl, he'd feel better, because a girl could give the Italian a family, something that he could not. But no. Italy had chosen another man, and that hurt, because it meant that the Italian truly did not want him anymore.
Germany was not like other people; he did not cry over relationships. Yet, he had never felt this aching hurt, this piercing pain that had him curled up into a fetal position on his bed. He had to try again, tomorrow. Italy might not have been officially been with the other many that he saw him with. He might not have totally let him go. He had to try again.
Again, anxious, uneasy and heartbroken, Germany gave into what his body wanted, dreaming of times when Italy was his, and his alone.
"I- I'd like a bouquet of two dozen roses, please," Germany said, fidgeting. The florist smiled, walking over and picking the freshest bouquet, handing it over to him. Her long, dark hair swished behind her, but Germany was only thinking of Italy. "I hope everything goes well," She said. "That'll be twelve dollars, please."
"Uh, danke," He said, handing over the money just as a dark haired male walked in, and the florist cried out, "Brother! How did you date with Mr. Greece go?"
The German did not pay attention to the quiet reply of the florist's brother, concentrating on how to phrase his apology to Italy. He had written a card that he wasn't sure if he wanted to place in the bouquet – it seemed so unlike him – but took a deep breath and nestled it between the blossoms. He sighed, looking out of place with the giant bouquet as he continued to walk to the Italian's apartment.
He got into the lift, and closed his eyes. All the moments that he had spent with the Italian flooding into his mind like a water from a broken dam.
"Ah!" Italy cried, burying his face into Germany's chest as another plastic ghost flung itself at their cart . "I- I'm sorry! I just- Eek!"
"Germany! Germany!" Italy laughed, "Are you happy that all of us are together on a picnic?" He tilted his head adorably, his smile lighting up Germany's day.
"Germany..." Italy moaned, clawing at the blonde's back as he pounded into his pliant body. "Germany! Ah- Ahn! Please, Germany, more!"
"I love you, Germany," He smiled, "I love you!"
He opened his eyes again, smiling sadly. Gods, how he loved Italy. The lift slowed down and came to a complete stop. He swallowed – this was it – and the door opened, his mind stopping the way the lift had just seconds ago.
Italy was kissing someone else. His Italy, the one that belonged to him, the one that he belonged to, the one that he wanted, needed, loved...
The Italy that had opened his shell and told him that, against all odds, someone like him deserved to be loved. The Italy that he had hurt, and regretted so much. The Italy that truly, truly, did not want him anymore.
Germany had not believed that he deserved Italy when they first started dating. He did not know why someone like Italy would fall in love with someone like him. How his sunshine could have penetrated the walls that the German drew up around him, to block everyone else out. Italy had gently coaxed him out of his shell with gentle smiles and laughter, and a promise that he would love him for eternity.
With one mistake, everything had come crashing down.
Now Germany had nothing. He retreated back into his shell, refusing to come out. His heart sent up iron walls with steel bars around it, afraid of getting hurt again. Everything that Italy had done to bring him out, to make him smile and mean it, all reversed its effects, because Italy no longer belonged to him anymore.
A shock of pain shot through him, and he silently dropped the bouquet, limbs unable to function anymore. Turning, he mechanically made his way back into the lift, heartbroken and hurting, and crawling back into the darkness and depths of his heart. He was clam until the lift doors opened, and it was a mark of how much he loved Italy that tears slid down his face as he exited the building.
Lying on the ground, beneath crushed rose petals, was Germany's note.
I'm sorry for what I did, but I assure you that it never affected what I feel for you. I apologize for hurting you like that, and I hope that you will forgive me. Italy, please, I am begging for your forgiveness. I know this is unlike me, but this is truly what I feel for you. This is what you reduce me to when I try to think of my life without you. You are the sun to my rain, and the laughter to my tears. Won't you forgive me, please?
I love you, Italy. More than anything or anyone else in the world, I love you.